l'Ahavah
by Javert's Suicide
Summary: Christine and Raoul aren't exactly what the other expected. The former simply struggles to make it work. The latter takes a whore. A young woman buys the Opera Populaire, a final act of desperation. ErikOC better than it sounds...I hope...
1. To Take Leave of Notes

**To Take Leave of Notes**

Disclamation: I do not own anything belonging to someone else. I did own the word

Disclamation, but then I discovered it was, in fact, a word.

_Masquerade, _

_Paper faces on parade,_

_Masquerade._

_Hide your face _

_So the world will never find you._

The phantom of the opera swallowed hard as he stared at the black walls surrounding him. Even after Christine had left, he was too much of a coward to kill himself.

You alone 

_Can make my song_

_Take flight._

_It's over now_

_The music of the _

_Night._

"Never again! This is your fault God! Fate! She left me! It's your fault! It's _music's _fault! It is gone! Forever!"

Oh music 

_Sweet and lovely song,_

_From you I run!_

_From you I hide!_

_Oh music _

_Sweet and lovely song_

_Seductress!_

_Murderess!_

_Oh music!_


	2. Domestic Disharmony

**Domestic Disharmony **

Disclamation: I don't own anything belonging to someone else. I did own the word

Disclamation, but then I discovered it was, in fact, a word.

The newly married Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny, formerly Christine Daae, stretched and slid out of the bed she shared with her husband Raoul. He slept still, in the dawn hours. She couldn't sleep late; when she was in the Opera Populaire she rose at early for the ballet practice. She ran a hand down his soft cheek and smiled briefly. He was her angel.

She entered her dressing room, the beautiful mirror filled area adjacent to the bedroom. "Marie," she called softly.

"Is there anything you need my Vicomtesse?" the young servant asked.

"Marie, would you assist me in dressing?" she questioned with a rueful smile. The corsets worn by noblewomen had laces in both the front and back, preventing her from getting ready herself. It was times like these she wished she were back at the opera house. _But the opera house is nothing now; just smoke and ashes_, she told herself.

"Of course my Vicomtesse."

"Thank you Marie, and I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning."

"It's my job. I don't mind. I enjoy it." Her face was apprehensive and worried.

Christine immediately regretted her apology. The poor child thought her job was unnecessary. "Oh, of course," she stammered.

The girl relaxed and helped Christine to finish dressing. She walked down the stairs and was presented with an orange, peeled and cleaned. "Thank you," she said gently. The boy smiled uncertainly with his large, fearful eyes.

She sat down and sighed slightly. _For Raoul_, she forced herself to remember. _Raoul _wants _a noble wife. A proper one and he shouldn't have to settle for less_.

Vicomte Raoul de Chagny opened his eyes and groaned. Christine had risen earlier, leaving a cold patch to his left. He had told her to sleep late; he told her to "rest her old and weary bones," as the joke had been.

And the innocent and lovely Christine Daae—_no, _he murmured silently, _Christine de Chagny, as she _is _my wife_—well, the lovely Christine had been as naïve as she had seemed.

As much as he hadn't wanted to press her—well, she seemed about as eager to get into bed with him as with that—that phantom of the bloody opera!

"Martin!" he snapped.

"Yes my Vicomte?"

"Bring my clothing and send a message to my wife. I desire a word with her."

"Yes my Vicomte."

Suddenly, he didn't want to mess around with his inexperienced, unprepared, unknowledgeable wife. He wanted someone else.

"Martin?"

"Yes my Vicomte?"

"There has been a change of plans. I'm going out."

"Shall I prepare a carriage my Vicomte?" he asked, never forgetting that apparently necessary bit of courtesy to his better.

"No. I'll go on my own."

Martin turned meek. "Shall I inform your wife of your going?"

Raoul said nothing. "My Vicomte?" Martin stuttered.

"No. And I do not desire a word with her either."

Martin nodded, eager to go. "Yes my Vicomte."

Raoul didn't blame him and let the poor fool go. _Poor fool, he makes me laugh… _The opera songs tended to run through his head. He didn't blame them either. After the…tragedy that night…his thoughts were muddled. Christine was a touchy subject. Martin hadn't wanted to bring it up…

He had tried to initiate bedroom activity before and had failed. She didn't even seem to know what it was. Before the wedding, he could go to any whore for sexual cravings. Though he knew she wouldn't like it—well, she didn't even know what it was, the ingénue.

Giselle Bouvier smiled at the man's attentions, and she flirted back. _Like I have a choice, _she joked in her mind. As a prostitute, it was her job, and her seductiveness led to her making a half-decent living. _Half-decent indeed…_

"Simonne!" Her 'owner's' voice rang shrilly. "There's a man here who's asked for our 'best!'"

The young woman tossed her deep brown curls over one shoulder and kissed him goodbye, promising to return later.

She settled the shy smile over her outgoing interior. "Hello?" she said, almost as if not sure how she would be received.

The handsome nobleman seemed reassured and in control. She guessed he was married to a quiet woman. There was no way this man was not married; he was attractive and rich, judging from the small silk purse filled money he offered her.

"And would there be a pretty name for the pretty lady?" he asked, with the air of one reassuring a frightened colt.

Simonne made herself look slightly calmer. "I am called Simonne Bouvier."

He handed her a red rose. She gasped, genuinely surprised. "Why, thank you."

He smiled. In response she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, allowing her expertise to take over.

She couldn't miss his satisfied smirk as he pulled up his trousers and left.


	3. Cheap

**Cheap**

Disclamation: I don't own anything that belongs to someone else. I did own the word

Disclamation, but then I found out that it is, in fact, a real word.

A/N: I wrote this while listening to The Last High and Tears from the Moon, both from the movie tomb raider: the cradle of life. That should explain why she is all "take the offer." You'd be amazed at my self-control. I didn't have her say, "Then I shall have to force you." It's a terrible movie, but I love Gerry. These are sad songs…the latter at least. Another note: this is mostly 2004 movie phantom, with a few extras. Last thing before the story—while I'm not incredibly proud of this story, as oppose to God on High for example, I've gotten three chapters so far today. Even if one is a prologue. Oh yeah, one thing more. Joliet is pronounced like Juliet. I know that's not how it really is. Just use your goddamned imagination. Sorry for that. It's late for me.

Joliet Destier stood straight and walked into another inn, stopping at the stocky bartender. "Monsieur, have two gentlemen entered by final names of Andre and Firmin entered?"

The man laughed. "Sweetheart, I don't know these bloody drunks' names unless they're shouted out by their friends."

She smiled. She hadn't liked how he'd called her sweetheart, but she didn't let it show. The daughter of a French merchant and American actress, she took after her mother in everything but face and looks. Even her accent had a hint of its origin from across the sea.

The man sighed, running his fingers through his wild hair. "Is it that important, sweetheart? A room full of roaring drunk—what did you call them? _Gentlemen_?—is not the nicest thing to see. Not for one like you."

Joliet forced uncertainty onto her blandly pretty face. The bartender sighed again. "I'm only helping you because you remind me of my daughter. Is he your husband sweetheart?"

Joliet made herself look slightly shy and abashed. "It's just an engagement. With the latter, of course. The former is my uncle."

He rolled his eyes slightly. "You'd better come all the way in then. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Of course Monsieur," she told him reassuringly.

"After you sweetheart," he said holding the door for her. She wished he'd stop calling her that. Was it what he called his daughter?

Joliet entered and looked around, eyes setting on her targets. She couldn't count on two hands the number of inns and bars she had checked for them. She got lucky; they were, as the bartender had so beautifully put it, roaring drunk. "Messieurs," she began and they looked up. "The Opera Populaire—I believe you were its owners?"

The bartender was, mercifully, busy elsewhere. That was good. She _had _lied to him, and was about to expose herself. "That is my partner and I." His voice was surprisingly sober-sounding. He moved to stand up and fell over, arm around Joliet's waist. She gritted her teeth and disentangled herself.

"Messieurs, I have an offer—I'll take it off your hands."

"How much will you give?" With their overgrown beards and dirty clothing, they were unrecognizable as their former well-to-do selves. She thought the one who was sober-sounding and able to talk was Firmin.

She said nothing, only handed the man a wad of bills. "I've a better idea," he said, arm around her slender waist again. It took all her self-control and all of her skill as an actor to not scream or fight. She used all her will not to panic in this terrible déjà vu moment. "Take the money Firmin. Buy yourself a drink. Buy your friend a drink. Give me the rights. Just hand over the papers."

"He's Firmin." The man, apparently Andre, pointed at the man to his left, the one unable to talk.

"Terribly sorry. Just take the offer."

"No."

"You won't get better, if you ever get one aside from this."

"No."

"Take the offer Andre. It's very good." Maybe the man wasn't as drunk as she'd thought. Then she looked at him, and realized he was just playing. "All right. I'll leave."

"No, wait. I'll take it." He tossed her a bag.

Joliet smiled and walked out of the stinking room. Opening the bag, she found the papers she needed. It was a good bag; it was worth a lot of money. Almost enough to be worth more than the small amount she had paid him. He hadn't counted the money; it was his fault. The bartender exited the room as well.

"Did you find what you needed sweetheart?" he asked.

Her smile wasn't faked. She emptied the bag into her own. "Give this back to the two men I was talking with."

"Congratulations on your wedding sweetheart." He winked as though he had made an incredibly observant comment.

She smiled. "You'd think it would clean out my pockets. It's going to be beautiful, yet it's still incredibly…cheap." It was her favorite American term. If he noticed the language change, he said nothing.

"Goodbye sweetheart, thanks for stopping by."

She handed him a few bills. "Thank you monsieur."


	4. Look M'sieur, Where all the Children Pla...

**Look M'sieur, Where all the Children Play**

Disclamation: I don't own anything that belongs to someone else. I did own the word

Disclamation, but then I found out that it is, in fact, a real word.

A/N: Bathroom break, and I'm back at it! Just to warn you—this explores the idea that Erik and Madame (for my purposes Elise) Giry had something of a relationship, were the same age (about), and also talks about a scene where she almost dies. I sort of reinvented her past. It's his dream and a flashback, if you want to look at it that way. BTW, this puts him very out of character. That will be explained, I swear it. One more thing, I swear. I mentioned earlier Joliet was pronounced like Juliet. I'm editing that to say that it's pronounced Joh-lee-eht. The end two syllables are pronounced the same. The beginning has an "oh" sound instead.

"Come with me! Hurry!"

A boy with a bag over his head, two holes cut out for eyes, followed behind a limber and beautiful girl. They ran down dark alleyways and cut across back roads until they reached a large and expression-filled building.

The girl pushed the boy through a side entrance.

The girl entered a chapel and grabbed the boy's hands, dragging him to a corner. Footsteps approached, and an elderly voice called out, "Little Giry? Is that you?" She left muttering about how her ears were surely dying out.

"Is that your name? Little Giry?" the boy asked. His voice was musical and pleasant to the ears. But it was also dark, filled with horror, terror, and fear-inspiring.

"Only if that is what you wish to call me. I'm really Antoinette. Antoinette Giry. And who are you?"

"What does it matter?"

"I need something to call you," she said, apparently adamant that he had a name.

"I-I don't remember what my—what my mother called me. I mean to say, named me. I mean—"

She put one finger over his lips. Somewhere along the way, his bag fallen half off, showing off the lower portion of his face, exposing a handsome jaw and soft mouth. "It's all right. Erik."

"Erik?" he asked, hardly daring it to be true. A name—a real one! —that was all his.

"Yes Erik."

"Erik."

"In the carnival," Little Giry began, wishing she made up the beautiful name, "An old woman, she—while the she was telling me my fortune—or was supposed to—she just said it. She said it over and over again. 'Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik.'"

"I never knew that was my name…"

"Maybe it's not." Antoinette instantly regretted this, but instead of looking melancholy, his face was simply pensive.

"I like it nevertheless," he said finally.

Little Giry smiled looking relieved. He cracked a smile. "Thank you Giry."

She like the way he called her that. Elise was what her family had called her. The other ballet rats called her Little Giry, or the Petite Rat. They were just nicknames, but they made her feel like a child. Erik—her brother, that is—had promised her that when she turned fourteen he would call her Giry, not Little Giry. It had been him who'd started the nickname. It made her feel grown-up, like a woman, instead of a child.

Giry kissed him on the cheek lightly. It was daring and new to her. Like her name. "Sleep well Erik."

"Sleep well Giry."

Sixteen-year-old Giry was Prima Ballerina. She was the youngest to hold the position in the Opera Populaire. She stretched and practiced at midnight in her dressing room in nothing. She had just had her bath; she couldn't sleep. "You look beautiful." The rich voice came from behind her changing screen.

"Erik!" she gasped.

"Giry." He stated this as a fact.

"Can you—can you—you know—I mean to say—can you see me?" she stammered.

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Seriously Erik. Can you see me?"

"No. I'm behind your curtain Giry, can't you hear my voice?"

She shivered. She _could _hear his voice, and it was alluring, sensual, _seductive_. "Don't come out. Let me change."

Giry slid into a nightgown and dressing gown.

"May I come out?"

"Do you _really _need to ask that question Erik?"

"To be honest, no. But you already knew that Giry, didn't you?"

"Could you see me?" she asked as he stepped out from behind the screen.

"Would I lie to you, lovely Giry?"

"No," she said softly.

"I didn't see you naked Giry." He said it firmly.

"I can't sleep Erik." The words were still more shy than usual.

He sang softly. She fell asleep into his arms, and he laid her across her bed, drawing the covers over her.

"Happy birthday Giry," Erik said, stepping out from behind her curtain. "You're twenty now, right?"

"You remembered!"

"Oh, my Giry. Would I forget? Here. This is for you." He handed the girl a portfolio, kissed her soundly, and ran from the room.

"Erik! Come back! Please Erik. Don't leave!"

Giry opened the portfolio. "Oh Erik," she whispered. It was a packet of the lullabies and songs he had ever sang for her.

Oh music 

_Sweet and lovely song,_

_From you I run!_

_From you I hide!_

_Oh music _

_Sweet and lovely song_

_Seductress!_

_Murderess!_

_Oh music! _

She remembered that one well. She had been struggling with the dance from the house's chosen opera. He had come out from behind her screen, sleeves rolled high and ink across his hands and arms. He saw her anger and sang that song softly. It had a beat that lent itself to dancing, and it was surprising close to the opera's music. It had helped tremendously. She danced to the song, remembering his gentle voice sliding over her like honey.

It was Giry's final performance of the very opera that had inspired Erik's little tune. She would be twenty-one in three months.

"Lovely Antoinette," a voice called from outside her door. It was too rough to be Erik's, and his always came from behind her changing screen. It was Jean Martin's.

Giry hurried to the door and opened it. "Lovely Antoinette, come to dinner with me. You were amazing to-night."

"Thank you M'sieur."

"How many times have I said it sweetheart? Call me Jean."

She laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. Behind her curtain, Erik's heart ached. He knew she wasn't really his. No one would ever be…

They hadn't spoken much since her birthday. He knew she didn't know how to find him. He didn't seek her out.

Jean Martin took Antoinette's hand in his own. "Marry me Antoinette."

She didn't think. He made sure of that. She had never had more than one glass of wine at a time. She had just had so many…far too many for a drunken Elise to count. Maybe five? Six, seven? She didn't know. "Yes M'sieur."

"Good girl," he murmured. He had his carriage take them both home. Once inside he had her against the wall in an instant. Every bit of sense in her head was shouting to stop this, but it couldn't force its way past her think skull.

His mouth was on hers; his hands were over her body. She couldn't stop it. She had no choice.

Erik was nervous. Giry wasn't home, and it was past midnight. He hadn't been outside the opera house since he was thirteen. And he hadn't been outside a cage since he was twelve. It had only been one year? It had felt like so much more.

Suddenly he didn't care. His hat was pushed over his eyes, his cape settled across broad shoulders. He got lucky. She had managed to drag herself to the doors of the Opera Populaire.

When Erik found her, she looked terrible. She was bruised and blood covered. He carried her to her room; she was too thin. Why hadn't he noticed before?

He took a piece of paper and some ink. His childish writing was scribbled across music staffs.

_To my good Managers,_

_I would request you excuse Mademoiselle Giry from her lessons for the next few days. I am also afraid I must impress on you to present me with my monthly salary of twenty-thousand francs. Please leave box five available for my use, and in it, the money. _

_Many Thanks,_

_Opera Ghost_

(A/N—This is his first letter to the managers. Of course it's not like it usually is.)

It was halfway through Giry's twenty-first year. She had found out she was pregnant at her last birthday. She remembered the look on Erik's face when she had told him. He had just thought she was simply gaining weight—a feat that had put him in an increasingly good mood.

She had just told him straight up. His face had darkened, and, with a swirl of his cape, he had left. She hadn't seen him since. And Giry couldn't for the life of her figure out why he was so mad. Erik hadn't struck as the kind to get mad simply because society didn't permit it…

Pain raked through her baby's space. And suddenly she knew what was happening. She was going into labor.

Erik had been more upset than anyone knew when she had told him the news. Maybe it was jealousy, the kind he refused to admit to. Maybe it was anger, directed at Jean Martin; the man had disappeared and had never been seen since that fateful night.

"Erik!" He would recognize Giry's voice anywhere. She sounded…so… hurt.

"I'm here." He heard her sigh of relief and then her gasp of pain.

"Doctor!" she yelled. He didn't move from behind her screen, waiting for someone to come. No one did.

Finally he emerged and took her hand. Neither of them had done this before. It didn't seem to matter.

The birth was messy and nearly took everything Giry had. Including her life. "Erik," she gasped out.

"I love you Giry. I'm so sorry for not coming sooner and—"

She cut him off with a shake of her head. "If I die—"

"Don't talk like that."

"Take care of her—"

"You won't die."

"Look M'sieur, where all the children play!"

"I'll care for her."

"Where all the children play…"


	5. Sunday in Paris

Sunday in Paris

Disclaimer: This is the last one for the story, because these are _annoying_. I DON'T OWN ANYTHING BELONGING TO SOMEONE ELSE!

A/N: I have found that my page breaks are not working. I'll put up stars and put the first word of the new section in bold. Thank you.

Response to Reviews: isn't this so exciting? I have 2 reviews!

WildPixieChild16 and Kathleen Stanton: thank you so much! You are officially the first two reviewers! eDoughnuts for you!

**Christine** brushed her hair over her shoulder, wondering what it would look like shorter. It was a pain, and there was so much of it. But it was the current fashion in Paris, and Raoul should have a fashionable wife.

He hadn't been home all day; when she had asked after him, she got muddled excuses. Where could he have gone? Ideas drifted through her head. Perhaps he had gone to make dinner reservations for them…but that didn't take more than an hour. Maybe he had gone to buy her a present…yes that could be it! It was just the sort of thing he would do. He was such a romantic…

But no, the last time he had gone out for something like that, the servants had made her a hot bath and rich foods and other things to make her sleep.

Could he have gone to visit Jules? Jules Leroux _was _his best friend. Maybe she would invite someone over, like dear Madeleine, Jules' wife, or Angelique Benoit, the young woman who had been afraid to marry the kind Christophe Blais. _That _had been a good marriage, if she could say so herself. The beautiful Angelique was a perfect match for the handsome Christophe. And they looked so good together…

Martin, Raoul's favorite servant, stopped outside Christine's open door and cleared his throat nervously. "Oh Martin, do come in. You look quite ridiculous standing out there." She smiled but he only looked more scared. She sighed.

"Is he with Jules today Martin? Raoul, I mean?"

"Um, y-yes my Vicomtesse."

"All right then, out with it. What did you _really _come here for?"

"Your husband, the Vicomte—"

"Yes Martin, I know who he is. But can we not do away with these silly formalities?" Christine took his hands in her own. They were cold and clammy. "Oh Martin, are you sick?"

"N-n-no my Vicomtesse. Your husband wishes for you to join him at the le Croix's residence."

"Thank you Martin." At his hesitance, she sighed. "What else is it Martin?"

"Marie…I was wondering…if we could marry?"

She awarded him a strange look. "Martin, you don't have to ask. I think it's a wonderful idea. When is the wedding set?"

But the young man just stood gaping at her. "You may leave," she told him in an effort prompt anything remotely human out of him. Was this how the phantom had felt when she had first gone to his lair? When she had simply stayed in his gondola, staring at him with undisguised longing? Is _that _why he had sung? Not because he had loved her? It was just too much.

Marie passed the open door, jogging Martin back to his senses. He turned and left, and the two disappeared as the door shut. Christine walked over to it and opened it slightly, just in time to see the two sharing a passionate kiss.

This, too, was a good match, she thought to herself, if I do say so myself.

**Raoul **de Chagny had had a fine day. After his time with that lovely flower, Simonne—how she reminded him of Christine!—he went to an almost lovelier lunch with Baptiste, a good friend of his. He would have rather seen Jules, but the man was busy. He and his Madeleine had gone to London.

But back to Giselle… The girl was everything he'd hoped for in young Christine Daae. She looked the same, her behavior was similar, at least at first, but her…perhaps more carnal talents were definitely differing. He liked her. He would make her rich.

"Raoul? Are you all right?" It was Baptiste.

"Of course. I had a lovely day today, I was just thinking about it, and—"

"With your wife?" he persisted.

"Um, yes." It wasn't a complete lie, he told himself. Simonne had been a great deal like the woman.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted your loyalty. You put Valentine and I to shame. I've seen you in public with her, always holding hands and looking at each other, holding her like she were stolen goods—"

"What are you babbling about man?"

"You see, there have been these rumors, probably set by some gossip mongrel, the wash ladies, your servants—"

"What rumors?"

Baptiste sighed. "People said they saw you with a whore today."

Panic shot through his blood and he could only stare incomprehensively at the slightly older man. "A whore Raoul. A courtesan, prostitute—"

"I know what a whore is," Raoul said, gaining control of his senses.

His friend turned to leave. "Raoul, once you have yourself properly under control, then I will return. You have been cutting me off, ignoring me, and, while the food was…lovely…it does not make up for your outrageous attitude."

He flushed, loving Baptiste even more. The man always spoke the truth, considering his thirty years to be worth much more than Raoul's own twenty. "Thank you for lunch Baptiste. I was simply thinking of dinner tonight. Christine and I are eating at the le Croix's, did you know?"

"Really? Who else is in attendance?"

"Jacques Lagrange and his wife, Elise, Philippe Grondin and his sisters Juliette, Francoise, and Celestine—"

"Not his wife?"

"Ah, the loving Fernande. Such a dear, she is. And, of course, Moise and Desiree, the le Croix couple themselves."

The two shared a knowing laugh. It was well known that Moise, a handsome, cold, and arrogant man did not fit well with the average looking, smiling, and friendly Desiree.

"Have a nice evening Raoul."

"Adieu to you too, Baptiste."

The two grasped hands and turned to leave. "Oh, and Raoul?"

"Baptiste?"

"I'm truly sorry about my assumption, earlier, and—"

"It's all right Baptiste. Even so, men do things like that all the time."

"Yes, but—well, it just didn't…strike the right chord with me."

"I know friend."

They smiled and Raoul entered the carriage outside.

**Simonne **Bouvier stretched lazily in the early morning hours of the Sunday morn. Sundays were _terrible_ for business and mornings were bad anyway. It's not like she was on the street. No, she did well for herself.

Rene Giroux entered, looking peeved at something. "What is it with Sundays? Are these pathetic men so 'religious' they can't buy one of my courtesans on God's day? WHAT IS THIS?" he roared. He was always upset on a Sunday, particularly if he had a hangover. Which he did.

Simonne sighed slightly and put her arm around him. "Don't worry Rene. I appear to have a very wealthy new patron. Should take him a while to get bored…"

"No one gets bored of you, mon ami."

She smirked rather egotistically as the other girls glared. "When will he be back?" Giroux asked, virtually unimpressed with her snooty attitude.

Simonne dropped her arrogant façade and looked up at the man who had housed the whores—all eighteen of them. At twenty-one she had been here since she was fourteen, looking older than she was. At least, she had when she was young. Giroux joked she had come to him eighteen and still was. "Tonight," she said shortly. "You said you'd be moving us to the building on the other side of town—the nicer side. I have a very rich patron—we all do. Even young Virginie has her Moise le Croix. All of us have enough now to strike on our own—buy the house, make the money, live decent and honest lives. We haven't, so we'll have you. Why? Because that's what we've always known. Perhaps we will leave now…"

It appeared Giroux had not heard one word she said. "You can't! Not tonight!"

"And why not, pray tell?"

"Claude Bonenfas?"

"Perhaps we will leave. Go for ourselves." It was Monique. She had arrived at the house after Simonne but felt her age gave her greater rights. Simonne disliked her. Very, very strongly.

Apparently though, the other girls did not feel the same way. "Yes, we'll leave. Simonne, you'll come with us?"

She held back a pompous look. They still deferred to her. Giroux snapped to attention. "Monique, Simonne, ladies…let's not be too hasty. You have a nice spot. As soon as you've more money…"

Monique glared at Simonne. Simonne glared at Monique. Giroux left the room at a trot, leaving the two to fight it out. And then Marcelle—dear, dear Marcelle—threw herself between the two.

"Stop it! You're being stupid! You've Claude and Raoul, and you've Monsieur Bonenfas's brother, the one whose name starts with a 'J'" Marcelle looked at each girl in turn.

Monique turned abruptly and stiffly and marched out the room. "Bitch," Simonne heard her mutter.

With some sort of relief, Virginie went and quickly closed the door behind the woman. "Simonne, were you serious about what you were saying earlier?"

Simonne put a hand to her head in mock fatigue. "No. What do you want little sister? Another Bastille Day? The freedom of the whores? No, we are better here."

Marcelle nodded firmly. "No more trouble. Monique will be quite busy tonight. I know you don't like her, but she's is good enough to have scheduled appointments. What does that tell you?"

Simonne nodded. "I'll leave, I must prepare. I, too, have scheduled customers. Four, methinks, until my schedule is freed."

"Adieu Simonne," Virginie said. It appeared she had become something of a hero to her.

Good. Allies were always nice.

**Little **Meg Giry, daughter of the—she sniffled a bit—deceased Madame Giry and some unknown man, was miserable. She was cold and she was hungry and she was wet, and all she wanted was the opera house.

Her mother had disapproved of her gossip; it was as if she truly cared for the opera ghost! It had been a joke, a game, a child's amusement until Christine Daae had attracted his attention, and when she had brought it to Meg's attention, that night after Hannibal, the first night under Andre and Firmin, the new managers, well, that was when things started to become interesting.

To be totally honest, she had thought Christine jesting. And then she had thought her mad.

Meg fingered the white mask, mute testimony to that terrible night… She thought he was dead. She _hoped _he was dead. He _deserved _it.

No one knew who Antoinette Giry had died, or at least, no one but Meg knew. Meg's mother had _killed _herself. By her own hand!

But she could hardly think straight. It was late, about midnight, and she was hungry and cold and wet…

A carriage rumbled and came into view. As much as it hurt her pride, Meg approached it, with every intention of begging. It was her mother's fault! Anything, anything to put the blame further from her and closer to someone else. She swallowed through the lump in her throat. _Begging! Oh Maman, why did you leave me? _Meg wondered idly, anger beginning to overtake her. _Anything _to make her forget about begging. It was a woman in the carriage. Young, or old? Married? Meg couldn't see anything. "Mam'zelle—or, I mean to say Madame—"

"Who is that there?" The young woman sounded frightened.

Meg would know that voice anywhere. "_Christine_?" she gasped.

"_Meg_?" the woman sputtered. "What are you doing out here Meg? Come inside my carriage; I have not seen you since—well, since—"

"I remember," Meg said tightly, more in an effort to remember the old times, when they had been equal and Meg not so hungry than out of any real sympathy for Christine's hardships. Christine didn't know that, not that it mattered. Look how well she was doing now! Married to a Vicomte, her Christine, and with child?" She opened her mouth to ask, but she was cut off, rather rudely, by a servant with a boyish figure and an angry and old face.

"My Vicomtesse, who is this wench? Might I take care of her for you?"

Christine bristled at his impudence, but her courage and self-trust had dwindled in her time with Raoul, Meg could see that. "No, you may not. Please leave, this is my friend."

The boy bowed and left the tiny room. "Where's Raoul?" Meg asked, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. Christine didn't have appeared to have noticed.

"He stayed a bit later with the le Croix's. I was tired, so he sent me home with strict instructions to fall right asleep and not wake until morning." Christine smiled and Meg fought impending anger.

"Christine? Mother, well, she's, she's dead Christine."

"W-what? Are you sure?"

Meg's eyes went flinty. "Oh Meg, I'm so sorry! Is that why you were out here?"

Meg sighed and rubbed her temples, her head sore. "Christine, I couldn't pay the flat's rent, and the landlord rose the price. Where am I to find a job? Short of being a whore, there's nothing I can do. I can't read, write, do figures—well, except for my name—do anything really. Anything but dance…that's all I was learned at."

"Short of being a what?"

The girl blushed slightly, unable to go on. Was she so naïve? Christine shrugged and looked her friend up and down. "You'll stay with me, from now on. I'll turn you into a proper lady, with good dresses and noble suitors."

_This _was more like it. "Thank you Christine," Meg said softly, all anger gone.

**Author's Note—VERY IMPORTANT!**

**Now that I have your attention (I think) I have been notified by Hassadah (I'm sorry, I couldn't tell you her pen name) that many things in my story and her's, Anywhere You Go, are so much like in my story. I would like to say this is very eerie coincidence, although it is hard to believe. You may believe what you will, but I AM NOT LYING. She and I have talked and resolved the issue. I have changed the name of my whore to Simonne from Giselle and made it so Erik is not the name of Giry's dead brother. She also kindly advised me that Elise is not Giry's name (I'll admit I made it up—well, borrowed it from…someone…else.) It is Antoinette. The proper corrections have been made. **

**Now go ahead and click that review button. You know you want to. One more note—go check out Hassadah's story too! **


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